editor.
bell rang at six o'clock.
looking forward to the editor recommended by K. Murray to publish my essay on the development of poor communities in Australia, one constructed from a cluster of symbols that could be digested only addicted to the eccentricities, or someone confident that South-South dialogue, had any niche readers tired of the literature of entertainment. I had explained my ideas with disdain Murray of one who distrusts his own work, and while he answered me smiling, to my surprise, a few days later I spoke about the interest of a publisher New Zealand, a Maori. He said: It's executive, simple language, know your work and nothing distracts him. I thought ... "Well be silly to risk publishing this testament, a dictionary of nonsense, nonsense, aberrations which have so long kept secret." A rejection of the life that touched me and praise of death. Fuck
death, I said sorry, trying to guess the face of employer-... reached Expedited, executive, simple as Murray, I figured a peasant-eating sheep, sightseeing with sunglasses and Hawaiian shirt ...
The doorbell rang a third time and finally managed to tear my thoughts and chair gray spring up. It was difficult, I had no interest in talking to anyone, and I regretted having agreed to the meeting. Thus, in a bad mood, drag my steps to the front door, determined to get rid of the visitor, telling him not "I am interested in business, I changed my mind, wasting their time with someone who expected to die" ... With this argument , Maori would run.
When I opened the door, I realized whoever was there was someone I had been waiting a long time, speechless and watched him with respect while the memory of Murray's smile took on a mocking sense.
The editor said nothing, merely nodding hello, and compliment it pointed to a carriage drawn by four black horses, which appeared to have horns instead of ears. Esteban Bedoya
editor.
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